"Dedicated to everyone who wonders if I'm writing about them.
I am."
I saw this quote on Pinterest and I was immediately in love with it. It's true, after all. But then I really began to think about it...I wonder how often I have told the stories of other people in my writing? Laid out facts about their lives the way I saw them. I've stolen bits and pieces of other people and wrapped them up in pretty words. I've made them mine because I witnessed them. They've woven in and out of my own, but were their stories mine to tell?
I write a lot about the human condition: Loneliness. Loss. Love. The silence between heartbeats. The things we should have said. And I write a lot about people. I know people. I've always had this innate ability to sense someone's character...I feel as though I know them before they let me. It's intrusive and unfair. But this is how I was made.
How are we made?
It's in me to wonder this. Instinctively, out of the blue. Why are some of us hardwired to wonder and wander and always, always, always be consumed? It's in my blood to never be satisfied. Which, I suppose, is why I write outside myself. I could tell you every emotion I've ever felt--the overflowing happiness, the deep, roiling passion, the bitter and solid emptiness--but would it cause you to know me any better? Would it make you understand? I can promise you it wouldn't. I am in a constant state of flux. Everything is tenuous. As soon as I find the words for my feelings, they've already changed twice. This is who I am and I'm used to it. Instead of boring you with myself, I'll write about you. You; the nameless, faceless vestiges of my sanity. I can see inside you. I know about numbers and the counting. The tiny scratches on your inner thigh. Scars that line the insides of upper arms. Little white pills wrapped in cellophane. Stolen kisses on a race car bed. Broken Christmas lights. Selfishness hiding behind sweet words. The way you pause before you kiss her. Dark circles hidden under too much makeup. Wondering if you settled. That hidden playlist.
40°46′31.48″N 73°58′28.59″W. The way she never looks at you, not really, not the way I did. The way I do. 13 different people. Stories not my own. So if ever you wonder if I'm writing about you....rest assured, I am.
How are we made?
It's in me to wonder this. Instinctively, out of the blue. Why are some of us hardwired to wonder and wander and always, always, always be consumed? It's in my blood to never be satisfied. Which, I suppose, is why I write outside myself. I could tell you every emotion I've ever felt--the overflowing happiness, the deep, roiling passion, the bitter and solid emptiness--but would it cause you to know me any better? Would it make you understand? I can promise you it wouldn't. I am in a constant state of flux. Everything is tenuous. As soon as I find the words for my feelings, they've already changed twice. This is who I am and I'm used to it. Instead of boring you with myself, I'll write about you. You; the nameless, faceless vestiges of my sanity. I can see inside you. I know about numbers and the counting. The tiny scratches on your inner thigh. Scars that line the insides of upper arms. Little white pills wrapped in cellophane. Stolen kisses on a race car bed. Broken Christmas lights. Selfishness hiding behind sweet words. The way you pause before you kiss her. Dark circles hidden under too much makeup. Wondering if you settled. That hidden playlist.
40°46′31.48″N 73°58′28.59″W. The way she never looks at you, not really, not the way I did. The way I do. 13 different people. Stories not my own. So if ever you wonder if I'm writing about you....rest assured, I am.
